President John, glorious in apparel and self-importance, strutted along the boat-house float, blowing cigarette smoke into the faces of waiting oarsmen, playing the patronizing oracle to the newspaper men, and juggling rowing terms for the benefit of everybody within earshot. What strings the genius of the Triangular League had pulled with the Athletic Association to obtain his appointment as race official we may not inquire; of the fact there was no question. A certain Mr. Henderson shared with him the responsibility of being judge at the finish, but the glory of office President John took to himself. In his eyes Henderson was but the zero which added to one makes ten. He himself was both the one and the ten.

On a heap of sweaters in a corner of the open room of the boat-house lay stretched the Westcott crews, awaiting, under pretence of calmness, the moment for carrying out their boats. They could not start until the arrival of the launch which was to bear the officials. Meantime various friends who had smuggled themselves into the close quarters clustered about to stay up their champions and divert their minds from the race.

“Ben has got his quinquereme out,” said Mike, coming in from a visit to the float. “They’re rowing round here challenging everybody to race.”

“What’s the quinquereme?” asked Roger, raising himself on his elbow.

“It’s an old eight-oared ship’s cutter from some Spanish war vessel, that Ben discovered down by the East Cambridge bridge,” explained Pete. “He’s filled it full of fellows who want to see the races.”

“Why does he call it a quinquereme?”

“Because he likes the name, of course,” declared Eaton, laughing. “He doesn’t care what it means. Fluffy and his gang have picked up a big dory thing they call a bireme. They’re going to row the quinquereme.”

“That’s all over,” said Mike. “The quinquereme beat out the bireme and the pair-oar. Tracy says he’s going to challenge the second next.”

“Let’s go out and see them,” proposed Roger. He raised himself into a sitting position as if to carry out his suggestion, but Talbot pulled him back.

“No, you don’t,” ordered the captain. “You aren’t here to amuse yourself!”

Just then the cry arose that the launch was coming, and the non-combatants crowded to the door. Through one of the wide arches of the bridge, its parapet topped for a hundred yards by a dense row of heads, the slender Veritas was speeding down upon the boat-house.

“Second crew out!” commanded Talbot. McDowell and his men fetched their oars from the corner and laid them side by side at the edge of the float; then they brought out their boat, and, dropping it into the water, fitted their oars into the locks and took their places. When toe straps were well adjusted and the slides fully tested, friendly hands laid hold of the blades of the port oars at Mac’s signal, and shoved the boat forth.

“Attention!” called Mike. “Ready!—Row!”

The four oars took the water with a hard clean catch. Backward swung the blue, white-lettered jerseys in perfect unison; forward they came again, their slides returning easily with the motion of the boat, and again the blades snatched at the water and drove it back in one steady, prolonged push. The lads in the untippable old quinquereme mounted their benches and yelled the school cheers in a fierce burst of loyalty. A knot of old Westcottites on the bank echoed the cheer.

“What a stroke that kid sets!” said Talbot. “If he were only six inches taller and twenty pounds heavier—”

“I shouldn’t be on the first crew,” offered Roger, as Pete hesitated.

“Some of us wouldn’t, that’s a sure thing,” returned Talbot. “We’ll watch the launch off, and then go back and lie down.”

The Veritas took on board the officials and the newspaper men, and headed up river after the crews. President John had elected to go with the launch. He posted himself beside the steersman in the bow, standing proudly erect to be seen and admired of all men, and cast a long glance backward at the common herd that thronged the float.

“Doesn’t he make you sick?” growled Talbot, as they watched the Veritas plough her way upstream. “I suppose Newbury isn’t responsible for him, but I’d give my allowance for all summer to be sure of getting ahead of him. I’d row till I dropped dead rather than let that goat see us beaten.”

“He won’t see our second beaten, to-day,” said Eaton. “We’ve got the best thing in seconds on the river.”

“But he’ll see us beaten,” returned the captain. “I hate to give him so much rope, but second place is good enough for us to-day. On Friday we’ll have a real try at ’em.”

They lay down again in their old corner, telling Rust to call them out when there was anything to see.

“This is the worst part of it,” said Pete. “There’s nothing so hard as waiting. How goes it, Roger?”

Roger shook his head with a melancholy little smile that barely lifted the corners of his tight-closed lips. Pete threw at him an uneasy look.

“You don’t feel sick again, do you?” he asked quickly.

This time Roger’s lips parted to a full grin, “No,” he answered with emphasis. “I’m nervous, that’s all. I want to be doing something.”

“You’ll feel all right as soon as we get into the boat,” rejoined Talbot, relieved. “What we want is some one to jolly us up a little.”

Just at that moment, as if in response to the captain’s wish, a young man, displaying under a panama hat a face wreathed with smiles, appeared at the door and trotted towards the Westcott corner.

“It’s Happy Hutchins!” cried Pete. “Hello, Hap! Why didn’t you come before, you old fraud?”

Hutchins was shaking hands violently all round, calling every one by name as if he knew the whole crew as well as he knew Pete and Eaton.

“I couldn’t get here. I was afraid they weren’t going to let me off at all. If they hadn’t, I’d have cut the job entirely. How I’d like to be in you fellows’ shoes! The Newbury cox will be the only one on their boat to see Westcott’s to-day. Gee, but I wish I was pulling an oar!”

Roger glanced with curiosity at Pete’s face to see what effect this boundless confidence had upon him. Pete was grinning broadly, but only with pleasure in Happy’s society. He didn’t need the stimulus of artificial encouragement.

“What’s the job, Hap?” asked Eaton.

“Arlington Trust. Fill ink-wells and run errands. Three dollars a week. It nearly pays for my lunches.”

“Don’t get discouraged,” urged Pete. “Perhaps you’ll be made a vice-president next year.”

“I’ll probably get a raise next year that’ll pay my car fares,” answered Hutchins, calmly. “Where’s old Withers? Do you suppose he’ll remember me?”

“He’ll never forget the man that stepped through the bottom of the pair-oar!” declared Pete. “He’s sore about it yet.”

That was the first link in a chain of reminiscences that sent the minutes flying. Hutchins had not succeeded in getting into college in spite of an extra year, and two long summers of arduous slaving; but he was the jolliest, best-hearted chap that Westcott’s had ever failed to make a scholar of, and he couldn’t open his mouth without being entertaining. Eaton had just reminded him of his historic attempt to prove to the coach by argument that he wasn’t feathering under, when two harsh toots of a steam whistle cut his explanations short and sobered all faces.

“Trowbridge!” exclaimed Eaton and Pete, in unison.

“What’s ours?” asked Hutchins, quietly.

“Three. If Trowbridge is ahead, we’re close behind, you can depend on that,” said Talbot.

“Let’s go out,” proposed Roger.

“Not yet. They’re some distance up, still.”

For two minutes they waited in silence, listening. Then the whistle screeched once more, this time distinctly nearer.

“One! Two!” counted Hutchins. “Trowbridge! Come on out!”

The captain made no objection, and the crowd broke for the float. They were none too soon. The launch was breasting the water a length out from the arch in midstream. Alongside, but still under the bridge, was Mac’s crew, an indistinct streak in the shadow. From the second arch inshore, the bow of the Trowbridge boat was just emerging. Ten seconds later, both boats were clear of the bridge, sweeping towards the finish line. No other crew was in sight.

“Pull there, Westcott’s!” yelled Hutchins, as if he could reach the distant crew with his voice. “Hit it up, stroke!”

Talbot said nothing, but his eyes were glued on the approaching boats, now hardly twenty strokes from the finish line. His heart was heavy with disappointment. He had expected much from this second crew. When doubts as to his own assailed him, his faith in Mac’s crew had never wavered. He had expected them to win their trial heat with ease, to make up in a measure for the chagrin the school would feel if the first only gained second place.

“Gee! see ’em hit up the stroke!” cried Hutchins, suddenly gripping Pete’s arm and dancing in the water that flooded the float. “Look at ’em gain! That’s the way, Westcott’s! They can’t meet it! Look at their heads roll round! They’re all in. You’ve got ’em, Westcott’s. Hold ’em! Hold ’em!”

At this point Hutchins broke off his wild ejaculations to splash across to a cluster of old Westcottites standing near the boat-house and lead a cheer. While the cheer rang out, Mike was counting the last half-dozen strokes, and urging his men to row them hard. His boat cut the finish line half a length ahead of Trowbridge, whose exhausted oarsmen fell forward upon their oars as the coxswain bade them cease rowing. The spurt had caught them with no surplus of strength to draw upon.

After this there was no need of artificial diversion in the boat-house. The fellows on the second vowed that they had lots of strength left, that they were holding back so as to keep Trowbridge from pushing too hard, and that they could have kept the lead from the beginning if they had wanted to—all of which was believed because it was pleasant to believe. The exchange of questions and answers, explanations and congratulations absorbed every one’s attention until the toots of the launch again called the crowd forth to see the finish of the last heat of the seconds.

And now the moment was come which Talbot’s crew had been both longing for and dreading. As he helped carry the boat out, Roger was conscious of a shrinking—a nervous, unsettling fear that his strength and skill might not be equal to the test before him. He glanced at Pete to see if he too felt the depressing influence, but the captain’s face showed only a deeper line of determination about the mouth, and his voice as he gave the necessary orders sounded calm and reassuring. The unnatural tension was at its height as Roger sat with arms outstretched for the catch, waiting for the coxswain’s word. It clung to him still during the first strokes, as the boat got under way from the float. Then gradually the familiar movement absorbed his attention, and the grip on his heart loosened. The harmony of the swaying bodies, the monotonous creak of the slides on their rollers, the wash of the water against the sides, the “feel” of the boat beneath him as it drove steadily forward—all contributed to wake in him the old confidence and exhilaration.

As the crew passed under the bridge on their way to the starting line, the cheers from admirers above descended in a loud blare, but by this time he was beyond the need of such encouragement. He knew that the boat was going well, he exulted in the conviction that he had his form and his strength, and could row that day as well as any other.

The crews got off well. The dozen quick starting strokes put the nose of the Westcott boat six feet ahead of Newbury. Brookfield High and Boston Latin were still farther behind. Roger was a little dilatory in obeying the starting signal, and as a result, in his efforts to follow his leader, he rowed his first strokes too much with his arms; but by the time Pete lengthened out, he was in form again, his legs thrusting strongly against the stretcher, his blade catching the water sharply and hard, his pull straight through to the end of the long stroke. He bore in mind the last warning he had received from the coach, and gave particular attention to getting his hands away quickly, keeping in the middle of the boat and avoiding the abrupt return technically known as “rushing the slide.” He saw nothing but the back of the man in front of him, heard nothing but the exhortations of the coxswain, until four blasts of the whistle close at hand assured him that the Westcott boat was leading. Soon after this he began to feel tired, and wondered vaguely if he were not pulling too hard, but with the second toot of the whistle this sense of weariness yielded somewhat, and a glimpse caught over Eaton’s shoulder of Brookfield High, lengths behind, gave him courage.

“Halfway!” called Rust. “Keep it up now, Newbury’s gaining. Watch your form, Bow!”

From the launch came the signal that Westcott had lost the lead to Newbury. Roger wondered if he were really rowing badly or was just being warned to prevent a slump. He wondered also whether Talbot would spurt or let Newbury go ahead. And while he wondered, toiling at his oar and watching his slide, he felt the stroke quicken and rallied to meet it.

And then a new sound reached his ears, the sound of school cheers from the bridge. Again the launch whistled four times. They were ahead again! The cheers were clearer now and close at hand. Roger’s breath was coming hard with every stroke; he got no rest on the returning slide; his legs were weakening, he was tired all over, but not too tired to row; and he drove his protesting muscles as if they were things separate from himself, and he a cruel master lashing them on.

As they passed into the shadow of the bridge, the launch sent forth a single long shriek. The sound filled the Westcott bow oar with furious resentment. Was Pete going to let Newbury slip in ahead now, after holding them the whole distance? Why didn’t he spurt? Why didn’t he give his crew a chance to win its proper place? The spirit of battle that surged through Roger’s heart blotted out the consciousness of weariness and feebleness; he yearned for the opportunity to do something more than pull with all his might at the stroke set him.

But Pete did not respond to the ardent wish of the bow oar. The race was approaching its end. The launch gave its final signal—one hateful blast.

“Ten strokes more!” yelled Rust. “Make it good now. Hard! Hard!”

Then Talbot, either to test his crew or to show what he could do if he tried, suddenly “hit her up.” Bow oar met the challenge with a burst of furious energy. He was mad all through. He felt like tearing his outrigger from the side, like driving his stretcher into Eaton’s back. Those ten strokes were the hardest Roger had ever rowed. The boat leaped forward. The lead of three-quarters of a length which Newbury had, grew less with every push of the Westcott oars.

“Let her run!” called Rust, and the crew rested. Newbury had won, by a quarter of a length. Roger held himself upright, though breathing heavily. His limbs were in a quiver, his heart was sore against Pete’s cautious policy. They had lost a race that might have been won! Brookfield was splashing along five lengths away, trying hard to avoid the ignominy of being last.